by The Behrg
Only he and a handful of individuals knew the true source of the earthquake, or that it had been brought about by very unnatural causes. Which meant there was a reason for it happening now.
Fehener Takushkansh’kan. La’a’ione.
The last words of the dying native child.
Death finds the Shaman; Finding the Shaman brings death.
Whatever the message, it was clear the Shaman intended to slow them down. Which only made Dugan more determined to catch him.
They approached an intersecting hallway. A large circular mirror in the corner revealed not another soul in transit. Most of the scientists and workers had been corralled in the gymnasium, open tennis and basketball courts providing plenty of space. Search parties had been sent out for anyone missing from the staff roster.
As for Dugan and his team, they had their own search to conduct.
Zephyr continued. “Eighteen in the infirmary. Most injuries were minor; a few concussions, only one consigned to a wheelchair who shouldn’t have already been in one …”
Dugan smiled at that. Everyone knew there was no love lost between Dr. Morley and Zephyr.
“… so far, two deceased.”
“You’ll –”
“Here are their names,” Zephyr said, holding up a sheet of paper. “Cass didn’t know what hit her; her body was found in the freezer.”
Dugan remembered the metal drawer flying through the air, striking the woman scientist in the face.
“Wells passed about an hour ago; internal bleeding.”
Dugan grabbed the folded sheet from Zephyr. He pulled out his leather bound journal, placing the paper inside, then tucked it back into the inner pocket of his vest.
“Could have been a lot worse,” Zephyr said.
“Nothing is worse than having your enemy catch you by surprise. I’ve underestimated him.”
“No one can predict an earthquake.”
“That was no ordinary earthquake.”
Dugan was aware of the doubts many of his men carried regarding the supposed native they sought. A man who, if alive, was past his two hundredth year. Who communed with spirits, living off the land and purportedly walking between two realms. A man who had chosen one clan over another, abandoning the Pemoni tribe while granting supernatural healing abilities to the Makuxi.
Rumors circulated like the chaff brought in from a wind-swept storm. Not everything they heard was true, but there were whispers of truth within each story, hints that led them closer to an understanding of the man that would change the world.
Takushkansh’kan. The Shaman.
But if Dugan had underestimated this shadow of a man they were pursuing, he took comfort in knowing the Shaman had also underestimated him.
“Make sure I have the names of any others they find,” Dugan said, knowing these two wouldn’t be the only casualties.
“What about the people who died in town?” Zephyr asked. “You wanna add their names? In fact, I heard a local lumberjack died the other day when a log fell from a loader. Want me to track his name down?”
Dugan stopped walking. “You have a problem with the way I run business?”
Zephyr remained silent; Oso, of course, couldn’t speak.
“You think my book’s, what – a waste of time? Proof of my senility? Or the overwhelming burden of my own conscience?”
“Forget it – it doesn’t matter.”
“No, I want to hear. Go ahead, tell me.”
“That book makes you look weak. Memorializing every man, woman and child who get in our way? It’s like putting up a plaque for each pig you kill in a slaughterhouse. No one cares. No one will remember them. People only care that their bacon is crisp and their sausage is fatty, come Sunday morning. It’s no different with what we’re doing. No one will care what it cost to produce the miracle drug you’ll bring them. They’ll just want to know where they can get in line. So put the damn book away, Dugan, before somebody uses it against you.”
Dugan stepped up to Zephyr, looking up into the black man’s eyes. Zephyr was only a few inches taller but probably had Dugan beat by a good hundred pounds, every ounce of it muscle. But Dugan had never been one for intimidation.
“Let’s get one thing clear. This book – these names? They’re sacred, but not for the reason you think. See I know you, Zephyr. Michael Gillian Brown. And just because you don’t have a conscience, don’t assume it’s a weakness to those of us who do. Some of the greatest men in history accomplished what they did not because they were great, not because they were psychotic, but because they had to. Because there was no one else to do what they knew they could. But these people – these names – deserve to be remembered. Not because they gave their lives for a cause; any asshole in a uniform can do that. But because they weren’t given the choice. We made it for them. Determined that their life wasn’t greater than the thousands of lives that could be saved. The millions that could be healed.
“So no, Zephyr, this book – it’s not for me. I accept the loss of every one of these names, and I won’t hesitate to add however many more to this list we need to add – even yours if I have to. But I’ll be damned if all those who benefit don’t even know the names of those who lost their lives. Don’t even know they existed. That’s why this book is so important. To remember. That a miracle always has its cost.”
“You’re more insane than Morley, you just don’t know it.”
In a single motion Dugan snatched his notebook from the inner pocket of his vest and brought it up against Zephyr’s neck. “That could’ve been a knife.”
Even his men forgot how quick he was on the draw. Sometimes it was good to remind them.
“Are we through?” Zephyr asked. “Or are you going to try and papercut me to death?”
Dugan slid the notebook back into his pocket, stepping away. “We’re all just a name away from ending up on the pages of someone’s book.”
“That a threat?”
“Just a reality.”
“You can put your toys away,” Zephyr said.
Oso slid both of his blades back into sheathes, the dark metal disappearing in leather folds. The man had Dugan’s back even when Dugan didn’t know he needed it.
Both Zephyr and Dugan’s walkie-talkies squawked in unison. Dugan unclipped the portable device, his words coming back in stereo through Zephyr’s unit until the man dialed his off.
“Dugan, we’re heading to control. Go,” he said.
“Cy, there’s no need,” came the voice on the other end. “We’ve got the coordinates for the Snipe. At least where he last was. Trace has worn off. Go.”
“Copy,” Dugan said. “Map the Snipe’s last location and get the boyscouts ready. Full uniforms, neckerchiefs and all. Go.”
“Copy,” Cy said, the transmitter going silent.
“I thought Stanton said no more deep sea excursions,” Zephyr said.
Dugan began walking, ignoring the man’s attempt at levity.
After a moment, Zephyr said, “I just don’t want to see you fail.”
“It’s okay, Zephyr. No apology necessary.”
“I wasn’t apologizing.”
“What are your thoughts, Oso?” Dugan asked. “Think this could be a trap?”
The native whipped out his pen, writing quickly on his notepad without missing a step.
Too soon
“I agree. He expects this earthquake to slow us down, which is why we hit him now, before he has a chance to catch his breath. But just in case? Tell the men we’re no longer collecting samples.”
“You want us to leave the tranqs behind?”
“I want the Shaman to feel pain – real pain – and if that means butchering his people, so be it. We’re going to fill some empty pages today. Find out what these bastards can’t heal from.”
For the first time that morning a smile broke across Zephyr’s face.
Verse IV.
Faye Moanna sat at the bottom of the winding staircase lacing up her boots, a double knot for each of
them. She wore her pink running sweatshirt over her shorts and grey tank top, a loose fitting cover that provided more protection from the sun than cold. She hoped it wouldn’t raise too many questions.
Sir William’s bungalow – Faye didn’t think of it as a house – had fortunately been intact after the earthquake, at least structurally. The British astronomer’s toys had not been so fortunate. Glass had littered the auditorium upstairs when they had returned, telescopes and equipment lying in shattered pieces on the floor.
“See what happens when I leave Spree to himself for a day?” Sir William had said. While his pet monkey certainly hadn’t caused all the damage, Faye was pretty certain the little guy had helped.
They assisted in cleaning, salvaging what they could. Both Grey and Kenny had taken to the computer equipment and network system Sir William had rigged to project the stars onto the ceiling in his atrium. Despite several hours, they weren’t able to get it working. Quite the loss, considering only Donavon and her had seen the masterpiece of their host’s efforts the previous day.
Sir William did take the time to let the two techies peer through one of the unbroken telescopes, a cylinder almost as large as a cannon mounted to the auditorium floor. Strangely, it wasn’t until after showing them the stars that Sir William really became rattled. Faye didn’t fully understand, but something had clearly bothered him last night that had nothing to do with broken equipment.
The front door opened, Sir William entering with a half dozen chicken eggs cradled in his arm. The monkey leapt from his shoulder, bounding across furniture in the room. “Ah, you’re up early! I sequestered our breakfast.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Faye began to stretch, lifting one leg onto a raised stair. “I’m sure the others will be delighted.”
Sir William harrumphed, moving past her and into the small kitchen, opening cupboards seemingly at random. Pots and pans clanged wildly. Spree clambered up onto the counter, overturning a tumbler with an ounce of amber liquid at the bottom. He began lapping it up.
“Thank you again for your hospitality. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“The pleasure has been all mine.”
Another cupboard slammed, Sir William rising with a blackened frying pan. “Butter, butter …” he said, lifting odds and ends on his cluttered countertops.
“In the fridge. I moved it there last night.”
He opened the fridge, one finger tracing lines in the air as he searched each shelf.
“Behind the Ketchup. Sorry,” Faye said. “Force of habit.”
In truth, habit had nothing to do with it. The tiny cockroaches that fled every time an object was adjusted in the kitchen had been all the convincing Faye needed.
She glanced up the staircase to make sure no one was on their way down. Sir William had given Donavon some pills for his wrist which had knocked him out so hard he had actually snored last night. The footage Kenny had captured of the movie star deflecting a falling beam at the lumber mill was going to play extremely well. Donavon had saved one of the millworker’s lives despite the fact that they had been there to shut the mill down. No one would be able to dispute the footage, nor the amount of PR it would create – not only for their foundation, but every other eco-conscious group out there. It would easily justify any costs of their last minute diversion to Venezuela.
She couldn’t wait for Frantz to see it.
“At the lumber mill, yesterday, one of the men there mentioned a man. A James Dugan? I think I asked you about him before, but I sensed you might know him?”
“Ah, damn!”
Sir William pulled one hand back sharply as butter sizzled on the pan. “Darling, I barely know the names of the two barkeeps at the tavern. Half the time I can’t even remember them.”
“Just seems like you would hear about another foreigner living here. With your contacts in the state? The man I’m looking for, he makes waves everywhere he goes.”
Sir William stared at her with his weepy and bloodshot eyes. “You accomplished what you came for, yes? The destruction of the mill? So celebrate! Stop moping about like a spoiled child who wants the red and blue balloon.”
“The way I was raised, having a single objective was seen as poor foresight.”
“You were an army brat?”
“Might as well have been. Moved probably a dozen times before I was even ten.”
“I served in the queen’s guard, but that was ages ago.”
“So where would someone stay if they didn’t live in town?”
Sir William poured what looked like yellow flour out of a paper carton onto the pan. “Did you know I didn’t recognize one star in the sky last night? Not one!”
Spree pounced on a tiny cockroach, a spoon and stack of magazines spilling from the counter to the floor. The monkey lifted one paw, surprised that the beetle had escaped.
“A master conversationalist is someone who can change the topic without anyone taking notice. But Sir William, forgive me for saying so, it’s hard not to notice.”
“Well then, speaking of stars, is our action hero feeling any better this morning? I’m making a special breakfast; I’d hate for him to miss out on my home-made cachapas.”
“Sounds like a disease,” a man’s voice said.
“Well if it is, it’s certainly contagious – believe me, you’ll love them,” Sir William said.
Faye pulled her foot from the stairwell as Grey sauntered down. He wore his black pajama bottoms and nothing else, the tuft of hair on his chest hiding a quiet definition beneath. A butterfly bandage was wrapped tightly over his left eyebrow, covering the gash from whatever had struck him during the earthquake.
“Morning,” he said, walking past Faye, not even meeting her eyes.
It had been a mistake to kiss him.
She still had more questions for their host but they would have to wait. “I’m running into town, be back in a bit,” she said, squeezing past a wooden rocking chair and moving toward the door.
“What’s in town?” Grey asked. He sat at the bar, spinning a glass tumbler with one finger.
“I’m just … I wanna find the pilot, make sure everything’s ready to go.”
Grey spun on his stool, finally looking at her. “I thought you said you spoke with him yesterday. After we left. What might have changed between now and then?”
“Nothing.”
“She’s, uh, helping me with something,” Sir William interjected. “A little errand.”
Grey turned back around, pounding his fist lightly against the deflated counter. “You know we won’t be able to use any of the footage. Not with what happened.”
His words caught her by surprise, stopping her in front of the door. “What do you mean? It’s not like we have much from the earthquake and what little footage we do, we need.”
“I’m not going to use Malcolm’s death as a marketing ploy.”
Faye felt her face flush. So much planning had gone into the coordination of that day, lumber mills being shut down all across the world. It was no one’s fault that an earthquake happened to strike while they were there, that the intern had been unable to escape the resulting ruin.
You wouldn’t have escaped yourself without Grey’s help. Maybe she needed to go a little easy on him.
“You don’t own the rights of the footage you’ve recorded. This entire trip was funded by Frantz and Regener-Nation, including your cameras, film, equipment; the list goes on and on, so let me remind you – it’s not your choice!”
So much for going easy.
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Grey sniffed at the air, turning back to the kitchen. “It’s burning, old man.”
Sir William jumped, having been too caught up in their conversation. He cursed, batting at the flames now rising from the pan. Faye used the distraction to open the door and step outside.
It took every effort not to slam it behind her.
A wave of heat hit that made her stomach roll. Or maybe it was
just the smell of burning cachapas. Still, she felt so angry at the audacity of Grey. It was like he blamed her for what happened, for Malcolm’s death.
He’s not angry over that; he’s angry over you.
The way he had looked at her when she had stripped off her button-up to place it against his bleeding brow. When she had kissed him – so lightly – to thank him for saving her. Did he really think a moment of panic and a kneejerk reaction entitled him to more?
Probably, she realized.
She accepted that she wouldn’t have kissed him if she hadn’t wanted to. In the moment, it had felt right.
It was just a kiss. God, are we in grade school?
The door suddenly opened behind her, a figure stepping through. “I’m coming with you,” Grey said.
“I don’t need you.” Faye was in no mood for this show of machismo.
“I don’t think you need anyone, but I also prefer not adding to our body count,” Grey said. “These townspeople think we’re responsible for the earthquake, Faye. They blame us, like we brought some American curse down on them. You know they’re superstitious, and with all they’ve been through that makes them dangerous.”
“Look, I appreciate the fact that you saved my life yesterday, I really do. But I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.”
“What is so important that you go marching back into town for?”
“It’s not your concern! Go eat your breakfast and have everyone pack up.”
“Malcolm is dead, Faye. His parents, his girlfriend; hell, his hairdresser – not a single person back home even has a clue! And instead of trying to do something about it, you go off on some other insane crusade that’s gonna put all our lives in jeopardy again!”
Faye shook her head. “I’ve tried reaching Frantz – not even the sat-phone’s working! Maybe that’s why I’m going into town, you ever think of that?”
“Maybe,” Grey said. “But it’s not, is it.”
Faye looked away.
“You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself and that’s okay. I get it. It’s … who you are. But don’t lie to me about why we’re really here. You at least owe me that.”
Faye watched two black and yellow birds dart from tree to tree beyond Sir William’s estate in an exaggerated game of chase. “My whole life I’ve tried to make a difference. Accomplish something – I don’t know – beyond myself. Something that matters. I know it’s not a popular path. Hell, half the time I end up destroying something I care about – or someone – in order to accomplish something better. But it still hurts.” Faye rubbed her hand against the shaved side of her scalp.
